A Mother's Pride
by Katy Williams
Summary: Holby City Another Connie fic... Completely fictional situation I fancied writing... I only hope I do the subject the justice it deserves


A Mother's Pride

_Anger, _

_Revenge, _

_Confusion_

_Despair, _

_Sorrow, _

_Fear,_

_Regret,_

_Resolution._

The usual stages. I know them well now, like a familiar friend returning after a long overdue absence. They say emotions come in pairs - Hate and self-pity. Fear and confusion, Sorrow and Anger, Despair and Regret. But what's coupled with revenge? Or resolutions? The things we say in the heat of the moment, those which are short-lived, quickly forgotten by most. But not me, not this time. What he's done is unforgivable.

Shame, resentment, humiliation and the overwhelming sense of betrayal. Humility is the making of saints people say, but I'm no saint. And then the tears make their appearance, angry at first, then tired. Tired because I couldn't fight them anymore, couldn't keep them inside any longer.

**BANG**

**BANG**

**BANG**

It's funny how your mind confuses sounds when you're half-conscious. The knocks on the door which jolted me awake were first masked by loud bangs echoing in my ears. There's a tension in my muscles as I fight desperately to unclench my fists, bound together tightly as a result of my troubled sleep. Opening my eyes I squint from the penetrating sunlight shining carelessly through the window. I pull the pillow over my head in a desperate attempt to sooth the fire burning behind my eyes, and clutch it forcefully to distract myself from the constant pounding in my head.

Try as I might however, I cannot ignore the voice inside my head, bombarding me with questions.

'_Why does he do it?'_

'_Why her?'_

However I'm prevented from answering these demands by a repetition of the knocking which first woke me. Groaning as my joints crush against themselves painfully, I force myself into a sitting position, rubbing my stuffy head in a vain attempt to be ready to face the music. I shake my head suddenly to rid myself of the ringing in my ears, and instantly regret it as my flickering eyes burn inside their sockets, now unable to focus on any one object. I ought to go and answer the door, but blurred vision and delayed reactions aren't the best combination forcoherent speech.

I'm in too much pain to sleep, but far too tired to remain awake. And so the cycle repeats. Muscles screaming in agony as I try to find a remotely comfortable position. But there aren't any. Because no matter whether I sit or stand, or how I lay, on the bed or on the chair, with one pillow or with two, the sinking sense of despair is still with me. And the sickness I feel today, isn't the usual sort which soon passes, it's an ongoing feeling of dread. The knowledge that this time it really might be over causing bile to rise up into my mouth.

The first signs of remorse from my behaviour last night are beginning to show. The heart-felt wishes that I hadn't drank the venomous poison, the promising miracle liquid, because what's left now; he morning after? Bitterness… Regret…

But sitting here dwelling on things isn't going to change them. So instead, I turn to relieving my symptoms, hunting for some aspirin. I walk into the bathroom slowly, hand shading my sensitive eyes and open the cupboard. Instantly, a collection of boxes and bottles fall into the sink, clinking together loudly. I swear as the noise penetrates through me, and quickly begin to search through the contents of the sink, looking for anything which will do the job. Unfortunately, I'm out of luck, and painkillers appear to be the only thing I don't appear to own.

Sighing with frustration, I cram the oddments back into the cupboard, shutting the door swiftly behind them to prevent them making a reappearance. Muttering to myself about the inconvenience, I wander into the kitchen and begin opening more cupboards in my quest. I curse when I finally reach the conclusion that there aren't any in the house. Still, I only have myself to blame. For everything.

It's my fault you see. My penance for the drunken flings and otherwise loose behaviour. For the mockery I made of my marriage vows. For the people I trampled in my scramble to get to the top. The cruel words and things done in the heat of the moment which are gone forever. Cant be changed, n matter how much we want them to be. Well I got my comeuppance alright. I've paid the dearest price possible. My baby….

Fear, dismay, surprise, shock. You let yourself believe that it'll be fine - Doctors work wonders these days - there'll be a cure. You don't believe it's the end, because it cant be. It's too soon, you're not ready. Empty words of regret, pitying glances, and then a decision which no mother should ever have to make. This time it was my baby lying there, and she was breathing , and I had to stop the machine which kept her alive. I had to let her die. Me, her _mother._

"_She'll never make it on her own."_

"_There's nothing we can do now."_

And you want to scream and shout because she has to make it, they have to do something; it doesn't matter what, they just _have to. _It wasn't supposed to be like this. And they say they're sorry and that they understand, but they don't, not really, unless they picture their own baby lying in some transparent box, covered in tubes and patches. And one big tube… Colder, darker, bigger than the others, the one which is holding their tiny little life this side of reality.

But instead of sorrow, they feel elation. Happiness that it isn't their Steven, Rebecca or Lucy lying there, kicking and screaming in an agony that we cant even comprehend. A haunting cry as they beg you to take their pain away, scream for you to make it all better. But this isn't a cut knee, and a plaster and a kiss wont remove the heart-wrenching pain.

People say that these things are sent to try us, to make us stronger, bring us closer together. But I don't feel strong. I feel fragile, as though I could shatter at any instant, break into a million pieces with what's left of my marriage. Because within a couple of hours of finding out about our daughter's illness, he was straight over to _her _for a quickie before he came back to play the grieving father.

Not that I knew that at the time of course. I was too devastated to notice what was going on in front of me. I held the pathetically misguided belief that he needed some time to think, to get his head around it. I thought we were the same. Scientific minds, wondering about how it happened rather than why. Desperately searching for anyone who offers you a cure. I was truly convinced that he would return in a few hours, a smile on his face, telling me that they'd mixed up the test results. That she wasn't as ill as the doctors had first thought. That there was things we could do to serve her.

Clutching at straws… But when that happens… When your pride and joy is lying in a box, patches and tubes covering their whole being, wires from too many machines monitoring the very signs that prove that your baby is alive, the straws are all you have. It's a genetic problem, her diaphragm doesn't contract properly. But that's ok isn't it? A simple operation can cure that surely? Electric shocks, that would sort out the rhythm wouldn't it? And her muscles are slowly fading? Well keep her on the ventilator for a few more weeks, that would strengthen them wouldn't it? So that she could survive on her own? All the questions that you ask, franticly searching for something which can be done. Something which _you _can do.

You feel so helpless just sitting their while she writhes in such distress. Her agony showing clearly on her face. And all you want to do is take away her pain. Put an end to her troubles. But you cant. No matter how hard you try, or how many questions you ask, there isn't a cure. There truly isn't anything they can do. So you turn to the causes.

Too much alcohol? Lets face it, you were hardly a stranger to the intoxicating poison. Or maybe your love of the sun? The whole time spent under it's glare it's deadly rays penetrating you and damaging what it finds deep inside. The years of cigarettes at University, short-lived, but smoked nonetheless. Pure bad luck they say, just one of those things. But watching something so innocent scream with such a chilling tone, helplessly begging for their life, you know it cant possibly just be fate. God's will. God wouldn't want such suffering to go on. And there's something inhuman about your surroundings, a sickening clinical attitude.

And you know you have to let them go, but you cant bring yourself to do it; It's your fault your precious child is lying there. And that's even worse. The fact that you're little baby is suffering because of the stupid mistakes you made when you were barely more than a child yourself. So it's your punishment you see, when the sympathetic glances cease, and their gaze grows cold; another baby needs the machine, one that they can treat, one who stands a chance, who'll live to see it's first birthday, first steps, first days at school; all those things torn away from you carelessly by a face too strong to fight.

So you have to let go. Say your goodbyes and it kills you, holding them tightly as they take their last breaths. And you can see them fighting desperately for survival, their tiny little face contorting in anguish as they slowly suffocate, unable to continue breathing. Unable to fight any longer. And on the inside, you're broken. Shattered from within. All the hopes and dreams gone as you're joy was snatched away from you quicker than they was given.

People say that it's your family that you turn to in times like these, though how watching something so distressful could be described so vaguely is beyond you. And maybe for some women, they have that unit there for support. But not me. Not anymore. I gave it all up for Michael and look where it got me. Ten minutes after they switched off the machinery, I walked in on him screwing his secretary in his office. And it sickens me, knowing that he was somehow able to forget her so quickly. Put her to the back of his mind while he thrusts into his latest bit of skirt. But he;s Michael Beauchamp, and nothing he does surprises me anymore.

And I'm Connie Beauchamp, and I cant fight anymore.

Anger,

Despair,

Confusion,

I've felt them all, but the worst is the surging feeling of regret which takes over your soul .

A mother's pain is the greatest in the world, and it never ends


End file.
